


This Could Be the Saddest Dusk

by Leloi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, John's Dreaming, M/M, Season 4 is a Nightmare Sequence, Spoilers, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 21:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9403625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leloi/pseuds/Leloi
Summary: John gasped and opened his eyes.  For a moment memories swam around his head of moving back to Baker Street and raising Rosie.  As he took deep breaths to calm his racing heart he took in the room he currently sat in.  A soft “ping” caught his attention and he stared at a monitor that showed blood pressure, oxygen levels and heartbeat.  The man in the bed looked like a corpse.  His eyelids were sunken and his skin pale.  The dark curls were limp and greasy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for: Canon suicide attempts. Canon character death. Canon drug abuse.
> 
> There's a theory out there that much of Season 4 is actually John dreaming. The theory mostly comes from how OOC the characters become during Lying Detective and how the plot turns into a Bond film slash horror film in The Final Problem. Horror movies include Omen, Ring/Ringu, Saw. So what if it's all a product of John's grieving mind? Where did their reality split? The telling of Six Thatchers repeats itself to go to John's POV. I think something happened at the aquarium. 
> 
> So... This is an exploration of the dream theory.

John gasped and opened his eyes. For a moment memories swam around his head of moving back to Baker Street and raising Rosie. As he took deep breaths to calm his racing heart he took in the room he currently sat in. A soft “ping” caught his attention and he stared at a monitor that showed blood pressure, oxygen levels and heartbeat. The man in the bed looked like a corpse. His eyelids were sunken and his skin pale. The dark curls were limp and greasy. 

John focused on the mattress before him. He had been resting on the edge of the hospital bed. Why was he there? What had happened?

A footstep caught his attention and he looked to the door of the room. 

Mycroft stepped in, a surprised look on his face at seeing John. “You’re still here.”

“So are you.”

“Visiting hours are over. I’m family.”

Something in John wanted to reply that he was family too, but he knew that wasn’t true. “I’m his doctor.”

“Touché.” Mycroft took a chair on the opposite side of Sherlock’s hospital bed. “Have you made arrangements for Mary?”

John frowned, focusing his attention on Sherlock’s slim fingers resting at his side. “Arrangements?”

“For her funeral?” Mycroft prompted, growing concerned.

Suddenly John realized everything that he remembered hadn’t been real. It had been a long, strange dream. Parts of it were real… Mary was dead, shot in the chest by Norbury. The bullet passed through her body and struck the person standing behind her. “Shit…” John whispered, rubbing his face with his hands. Did he really have to live through all that pain all over again? It had been horrible the first time in his dream.

“John?” Mycroft queried, concerned.

“No, sorry… I just woke up. I dreamed that all of this has already happened… Except he wasn’t harmed. She saved him. Shit…” John leaned against the mattress, burying his head in his arms. “It felt so real.”

“I’m sorry.” Mycroft managed.

John sat up and stared at the man sitting across from him. “Do you have a sister?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What? No!”

“Was Redbeard a child?”

“He was an Irish setter.” Mycroft answered.

“Are you sure?” John demanded.

“Positive. What is this about?”

John blew out his air and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “You had a sister named Euros who was obsessed with Sherlock. She killed his best friend whom he remembered as a dog. But before all that he nearly overdosed on drugs to get at a serial killer.” Of course he left out the part where he beat Sherlock to a pulp.

“Well… That part is somewhat true. He has been using for quite some time.”

“How long?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Do you really want to know?”

“Tell me.” John demanded.

“He didn’t go straight home to Baker Street after your wedding. He took a side trip.”

“It’s been a year.” John rubbed his face again. “He’s killing himself.” The thought came out of nowhere and he voiced it without thinking.

“Yes.” Mycroft answered simply.

The reply shocked John and he shook his head in denial. “Why is he killing himself?”

“He has nothing to live for. I don’t think he planned for Mary to get in the way. He wanted Norbury to shoot him.”

“Jesus…” John gasped, covering his eyes with his hands. It hurt to think about. When he arrived at the aquarium he had found Mary and Sherlock on the floor, both bleeding. Mary died in his arms as Sherlock lost consciousness. The bullet had lodged in his liver but his body was weak from the drugs. “I don’t understand.” Lightly he reached out to touch the mattress near Sherlock’s fingers and stared at the man in the bed. “Why are you doing this?”

“He wants to die.”

“But why?”

“His sentiment… For you. It’s killing him.”

“How?” John demanded.

“Don’t you see? Are you blind? He loves you.” Mycroft answered in annoyance.

John shook his head. “We’re friends…”

“No, Dr. Watson… I don’t mean platonic love. He’s in love with you. He has been for a very long time.” Mycroft’s eyes were on his brother. “He’s broken.”

“But Irene…”

Mycroft let out a sigh as if he found John to be the illogical human on the planet. “You and Irene were alone in a warehouse with Sherlock listening. What did you two talk about?”

John shook his head. “She wouldn’t tell him she was alive… I found out she was flirting with him…”

“And how did you react?”

“I was annoyed… Angry!”

“Why were you angry?”

“Because she could have told him she was alive and spared him the pain of losing her!”

Mycroft took a deep, cleansing breath. “You were jealous.”

“I was what?” 

“He was there the whole time, listening to you express your anger and your jealousy. He knew she was alive the moment he followed you in and yet he did not reveal himself for a happy reunion, choosing instead to listen in on your conversation about him and your feelings for him. He wanted to know what you would say.”

“How do you know this?”

Mycroft chuckled softly. “Really? You don’t know by now?”

John was annoyed with Mycroft and slumped in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re wrong.”

“I know my brother. I know his preferences. Female dominatrix isn’t his pot of tea. On the other hand military men… Commanding and masculine with all the right bits…”

John bowed his head, trying not to think of the times Sherlock had enjoyed when he pulled rank or the way he looked at James Sholto. “Shit...” 

“You are blind, John. You always have been blind to what’s been in front of you this whole time.”

“Why are you telling me this now? My wife just died… I…”

“You know why.” Mycroft’s answer was soft, almost tender. “There is a real possibility he may not pull through this time. I thought, perhaps, you would want to know before he succumbs. He’s unconscious but he can hear you.” The man stood up. “I think I shall go find a paper cup full of ghastly tea. Do you want any?”

“No.” John answered. “You won’t like it.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Mycroft lingered at the door. “I am sorry for your loss. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.” In a moment he was gone.

John sat, staring at Sherlock’s hand for a long time. “You are such a cock…” A nervous chuckle escaped him. “All this time. We had years, Sherlock. Years together… You could have said something. Anything.” With a small sob he took Sherlock’s hand in his own, covering it with his other hand. “What have you done to yourself?”

There was no response. There wouldn’t be a response. The brunette hadn’t yet woken from his surgery. There was a bandage just below his angry, pink scar.

John leaned forward, pulling Sherlock’s limp hand to his face. Lightly he kissed the cool fingertips and pressed them to his cheek. “Please wake up. I can’t do this. I can’t lose both of you. Please don’t do this to me, Sherlock. I can’t bury you again.” His lips kissed unresponsive knuckles and he placed the hand back on the mattress, with his own lightly touching the digits. “I need you. I need you to stay here with me.” Standing up, he leaned over the side of the bed and studied Sherlock’s face for any sign of consciousness. Gently he reached out to push a greasy curl from the brunette’s forehead before allowing his fingertips to trace down the side of his face. “You need a shave.” His fingertips followed Sherlock’s chin and paused, ghosting over a plush lower lip. “Wake up.” 

There was no response.

John sat back down on his chair. “Mary’s gone. She died. She died trying to save you. If you die her death will be a waste. Do you hear me? She liked you. She believed in you. She believed in me and I… I wasn’t worthy.” Taking deep breaths, he attempted to stabilize his emotions as they slipped away from him. “I cheated. I cheated on her. And the really messed up part is that I dreamed I told you all this already. There was a woman on a bus and I texted her a lot. That’s all it was… Texts. I wasn’t the man Mary needed me to be.” Tears overwhelmed him and he leaned over, pressing his face to the mattress. “I can’t do this, Sherlock… I can’t. She’s dead. Don’t you understand? She’s gone. And you’re going to follow her. I’ll be so alone.” It hurt to admit it. In the dream Sherlock had been there to eventually comfort him… After John forgave Sherlock for surviving. In reality Sherlock was fading away.

Sitting up, he rubbed the damp from his cheeks and stared at the unresponsive man. “I suppose I haven’t said it, have I? I thought you knew. You always knew everything. And you’ve said it. You said it on my wedding day. I haven’t. Isn’t that weird? I haven’t really thought about it before now. But I do, you know.” John had a sudden thought of some cheesy fairytale. “If I kiss you will you wake up?” And yet the idea was appealing. Standing back up again, he leaned over the bed. “If I did this...” Pushing greasy curls from a greasy forehead, he kissed. “Like that?”

There was no response.

Angling his head, he lightly kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “How about that?” It was awkward to stand over the man in the hospital bed so he stood up. “You’re supposed to open your eyes when I do that.”

There was no response.

Nervously John glanced at the door, wondering when Mycroft would return. There was no sound of footsteps but he checked the hallway anyway, finding it to be vacant. Returning to the bed, he stood near the monitor, staring down at Sherlock’s unresponsive face. Leaning down, he pressed his lips briefly to the plush lower lip before minutely pulling away, bumping their noses. “I love you.” It was more of a breath than actual words. John didn’t know what he was expecting, but there was no response.

With a release of breath, he returned to his seat. In his dream Molly had been forced to say those words. Molly forced Sherlock to say them first… Like he meant it. Those words broke him. Saying them in a hospital room to an unconscious Sherlock broke John. The tears came and he leaned into the mattress, sobbing helplessly. The blanket caught his tears. Mary was dead and there he was cheating on her memory once again with an unconscious Sherlock, hoping it would get through to him. For a moment he felt like he was drowning at the bottom of a well and he reached out, his hand catching on Sherlock’s knee. The touch stabilized him enough to sit up and rub the tears from his eyes.

There was a sound… A soft sound. It was a hum. 

John looked to the man on the bed, holding his breath so he could listen intently. “Sherlock?”

The sound again. 

John took a deep breath and held the limp fingers in his hand. “Can you hear me? If you can hear me… Squeeze my hand.”

There was no response.

“Squeeze my hand!” John ordered. “Squeeze it!”

The fingers twitched in his grasp.

“That’s good, Sherlock. A little more.”

Fingers twitched and lightly squeezed.

“That’s good.” John raised the hand to his lips and kissed them. “I’m here.” Reaching out, he pressed the call button. By the time Mycroft and a nurse arrived Sherlock’s eyelids were flickering. 

^.~

“It’s past visiting hours, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft stated as he stood in the doorway. 

Both John and Sherlock looked at him. A full day after Sherlock woke up he was still lethargic, but he was making progress. “Go away…” 

“Then why are you here?” John asked.

Mycroft shrugged. “I’m his brother. What are you?” 

“John stays.” Sherlock stated.

John smiled to himself. Some things from the dream were the same.

Mycroft caught John’s eyes. “Look after him.” And he was gone.

John turned his attention to the man in the bed. “I still have to make plans for Mary’s funeral.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be more help…” Sherlock murmured.

“In my dream she was cremated and interred at the same cemetery you were buried.”

“My plot is currently unoccupied.”

“Not at the rate you’ve been going with the drugs.”

Sherlock made a face. 

“Your brother told me you had nothing to live for.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked away, not meeting John’s eyes.

“Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it.” Those words from his dream… “It belongs to me. I need you.”

Sherlock looked at him. A hint of a smile touched the edge of his lips. 

John took a deep breath and stood up. “I better go before they kick me out. I’ll let Mycroft back in.” Leaning in, he kissed the top of Sherlock’s freshly washed head. The curls were still limp but they were no longer greasy. “Be good.”

“You say the same thing to Rosie.” Sherlock protested.

“I’ll be back later.” John promised as he passed through the doorway and waved at Mycroft who stood outside, waiting.

\--Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Title a lyric from REM's "Half A World Away."


End file.
